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GSFT  OF 
Hearst  Fountain * 


Christmas 

an& 


»«rk«Ur.  1913 


?  S 


679899 


ia  rmus  est  vobis  jhodie  JSa.Vva.tor, 
c|xi.i  est  CkriSiU-S  ^onuntxs, «... 


(Tfyristmas 


Some  long  two  thousand  years  ago, 
Upon   the   first   bless'd   Christmas   morn. 
Our   Infant  Saviour  Christ    was   born, 
Unto  this  world  of  sin  and  woe. 

God  gave  His  only  Son,  that  wre 
Might  learn  through  His  divinest  love 
To  lift  our  hearts  to  Him  above, 
And   learn  of  Him   humility. 

And  yet  it  is  so  long  since  then, 
So   long   since   Jesus    lived   and   taught, 
Have  years  effaced  the  good  He  wrought 
And  all  the  life  He  gave  to  men? 

No,  for  on  every  Christmas  morn 
WTe  feel  that  God  is  with  us  still ; 
That  He  renews  His  watch  and  will, 
And  that  each  year  our  Lord  is  born. 

That  He  will  keep  you  safe,  I  pray, 
Within  His  arms  the  coming  year, 
And  guard  your  heart  from  pain  and  fear, 
And  guide  you  toward  eternal  day. 


Now  God  forbid,  that  when  I  am  full  grown. 
And  have  a  name  and  fame  my  very  own, 
That  I  should  scorn  or  scoff  my  youthful  days, 
Or  feel  ashamed  of  former  rustic  ways. 


Nay,  rather  should  I  proudly  thank  and  bless 
The   roads  which   led   me   to  my   happiness. 
For  is  the  day  not  fairer  for  its  dawn, 
And  brighter,  that  the  night  has  come  and  gone? 


SU&p 


When  night  in  the  great  beauty  of  its  dark, 
Creeps   in   about   the   world   and   wraps   all   things 
Within  the  mantle  of  its  mystery ; 
Somnus  arises  shadowless  from  earth, 
Approaches  us,  and,  with  his  quiet  touch, 
Sets  free  our  spirits  from  their  mortal  bonds. 

Then  like  a  bird  loosed  from  captivity, 

The  liberated  soul  soars  joyfully 

To  lands  of  poppy-blown  chaotic  bliss  ; 

Where  Reason's  government  's  a  thing  unknown ; 

And  where  the  spirit  wanders  at  its  will, 

Along  the  banks  of  clearest  crystal  streams; 

Or  lingers  in  a  garden  glowing  white 

With  lilies;  whose  soft  incense  leads  the  thoughts 

Astray  through  tangles  of  pure  fantasy. 

Ah,  we  are  glad,  poor  mortals  bound  to  earth, 
With  chains  of  hardest  wrought  reality, 
To  leave  our  bondage  with  the  driving  world, 
And  fly  upon  the  wings  of  sleep  to  peace. 
Finding  the  life  upon  the  spheres  and  stars 
(Or  what  e'er  be  the  worlds  we  wander  in) 
A  happy  balance  to  the  day's  return. 

MARCH    30,    1913. 


I  know  not  how  I  came  there,  yet  I  stood 
(One  evening  as  the  dying  day's  fresh  blood, 
Stained  all  the  west  a  lurid  glowing  red,) 
Upon  the  rampart  of  a  castle  wall. 

Far  down  below  me  roared  an  angry  sea, 
Which  met  and  beat  upon  the  castle's  side ; 
And  though  it  seemed  to  beat  forever  there, 
No  trace  of  wear  it  left  upon  the  stone. 

I  raised  my  eyes,  and  saw  far  out  beyond, 
The  flaming  sky  and  angry  waters  met ; 
Fringed  by  dark  crags,  and  jagged  perilous  rocks, 
Which  seemed  to  threaten  e'en  the  dashing  waves. 

More  fearful  still,   (about  half  way  between 

The  red  horizon  and  the  castle   wall,) 

Two  marble  columns  'rose  from  out  the  sea ; 

Each  one  surmounted  by  a  living  lion, 

With  forepaw  raised,  as  though  to  strike  the  prey. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

I  knew  not  what  to  think  of  all  I  saw : 
But  soon  there  came  a  Presence  to  my  side. 
And  it  I  questioned,  saying,   "knowest  thou 
The  meaning  of  these  things  phenomenal?" 

"Aye,"  said  the  Presence,  "I  am  come  to  show 

You  things  you  could  not  see  without  my  help. 


"This   castle   on   whose   ramparts   you   now   stand. 
Is   called   the  castle  of  Eternal   Years. 
These  darkened  waters,  raging  and  alive, 
Are  called  the  Sea  of  Life.     Look  out  beyond; 
Behold  how  ships  whose  cargoes  are  of  souls, 
Come  into  sight,  over  the  water's  edge." 

I   looked  and  saw  a  few   majestic   ships, 
Mount  o'er  the  red  horizon ;  all  their  sails 
Wide  flapping  in  the  wind,  were  purest  white. 
Their  decks  were  crowded  with  expectant  souls. 
Who  sought  to  scan  the  wind-swept  Sea  of  Life 
Which  lay  before  the  vessels'  plying  prows. 

And  as  I  looked,  I  saw  that  some  passed  by 
The  cruel  rocks,  undamaged,  and  with  hope. 
But  others  struck,  and  struggling,  sank  beneath 
The  great  dark  waters  of  life's  mysteries. 

"And  how  is  this,"  I  cried,  "That  some  so  sink 
On  the  bare  border  of  Life's  open  Sea?" 

The  Presence  answered,  "Those  blood-shedding  rocks 

Are  all  the  elements  opposing  life. 

Fear,  sickness,  poverty  and  hate,  are  they ; 

The  inability  to  conquer  death ; 

And  that  great  curse  of  wealth  which  stamps  out  love.'' 

And  looking  o'er  the  sea,  again,  I  saw 

Those  ships  which  safely  h<id  defied  the  rocks, 

Were  stopped,  and  struggled  near  the  two  great  lions. 


Seeking  to  pass  the  pillars  and  the  beasts. 

Some  passed,  yet  others  sank,  o'ercome  and  weak, 

And  disappeared  beneath  the  raging  sea. 

Again  the  Presence  thus  interpreted : 

"These  lions  are  the  evils  of  the  world. 

They  stand  with  paw  upraised,  and  seek  to  strike 

Unhappy   souls   who    travel   where   they    rise. 

And  those  they  kill,  who  cannot  pass  them  by. 

"But  those  strong  hearted  souls,  who  passed  the  rocks, 
And  those  who  overcame  the  lions'  power, 
Will  travel  long,  and  finally  gain  with  joy, 
The  happy  Castle  of  Eternal  Years." 

****** 

The  Presence  ceased  to  speak,  and  from  my  sight 
This  strange  and  unreal  vision  passed  away. 
I  stood  again  within  my  own  poor  life, 
A  slave  once  more  unto  the  commonplace. 

And  yet  at  times  I  see  the  great  ships  pass. 
And  sink  and  die,  or  live  and  struggle  o'er 
The  waters  of  today's  humanity. 
I  see  the  souls  who  battle  with  the  lions ; 
And  sometimes  'tis  my  happiness  to  see 
A  ship  come  into  port,  its  journey  done, 
And  find  its  rest  within  eternal  life. 


HEaster  Reverie 


Oh,  Lord  Thou  hast  taught  us  that  life  is  immortal. 
That  Death  is  not  known  as  the  end  of  all  things; 
That  the  Soul  in  its  freedom,  soars  past  the  tomb's  portal, 
And  flies  to  its  rest  'neath  Thy  sheltering  wings. 


Thou  hast  taught  us,  dear  Christ,    by  Thy  blest  resurrection, 
That  a  fair  Life  awaits  us,  to  comfort  our  woe. 
A  Life  which  will   realize  our  dreams   of  perfection, 
Apart  from  the  cares  of  the  one  we  now  know. 


As  Thy  Passion  was  rilled  with  the  anguish  and  sorrow. 
With  which  the  earth's  goblet  of  mis'ry  o'erflows, 
Thy  victory  proved  that  a  blessed   tomorrow 
Awaits  those  who  trust  God,  in  spite  of  their  woes. 


Let  us  praise  Thee,  oh  Lord,  on  the  Day  of  Thy  power. 
The  Day  Thou  did'st  open  to  Earth,  Heaven's  store. 
And  live  but  to  praise  Thee;  until  that  glad  hour, 
When  with  Thee,  in  Heaven,  we'll  dwell  evermore. 

EASTER  SUNDAY.  1913. 


Oh,   Death,    great   wonderous    Death, 

A  grim  dark  phantom  men  have  pictured  thee, 

Yet  kindlier  thou  seem'st  to  me, 

A   vapour   flown,   a   passing  breath. 

Thou  art  not  midnight's   awful  hour, 
Which  we  so  dread,  and  dreading,  fear; 
As  bearing  to  another  sphere, 
A  soul,  thou  art  a  gracious  power. 

Within  thine  arms,  the  desolate 
Creep,  finding  in  thy  sheltering  shades, 
A  peaceful  joy  which  never  fades, 
A  silent  will  apart  from  fate. 

Thou  liftest  on  thy  soaring  wings, 
The  souls  of  them  that  stretch  out  far 
Their  mortal   hands   to   Heaven's  star, 
And  dying,  live  for  greater  things. 

We  know  our  life  so  shallowly, 
We  have  not  learned  to  see  that  thou 
Dost  but  promote  the  lives,  which  now 
Know  but  a  blind  mortality. 

NOVEMBER   24,    1912. 


Ties  fltnsits  4D'un  Vieillar6 


We  are  born  to  the  world,  and  inherit 

Its  fortunes  of  Passion  and  Fate; 

But  God  grant  we  may  live  for  the  merit 

Of  our  souls,  'though  Death's  coming  be  late. 

And  God  grant,  that  when  Earth  reigns  around  us 
With  its  lure  of  delirous  life, 
That  His  Angel  of  Peace  may  have  found  us 
E're  we  fall  'neath  the  curse  of  Earth's  strife. 

I  am  old  now,  and  fain  would  be  preaching, 
For  I've  seen  through  my  long  passing  years, 
Blind  spirits  who  ever  are  reaching 
For  the  jewels  which  become  pearls  of  tears. 

And  I've  seen,  Oh.  full  many  a  mortal 
Who  as  slave  to  the  gifts  of  the  world, 
Has  failed  to  behold  Heaven's  portal, 
And  against  rocks  of  torture  been  hurled. 

****** 

But  no.  do  not  think  I'd  be  saying, 
Our  thoughts  should  be  only  of  Heaven  ; 
We  should  love  God  and  Earth  in  our  praying, 
And  enjoy  the  good  gifts  each  has  given. 


As  I'm  old,  and  I  hear  kind  Death  calling, 
I  am  anxious  to  say  e'er  I  go. 
That  the  far  greatest  chance  for  our  falling, 
Is  when  only  one  vision  we  know. 


To  attain  a  good  end  worth  the  earning, 
We  must  hold  up  Life's  scale  as  we  can ; 
And  balance  it  well  with  our  learning, 
Of  how  to  adore  God  and  Man. 


TEcfyoes 


Oh,  my  soul  has  often  wandered 
To  a  land  of  dim  remembrance, 
Where  the  sky  is  still  and  staring, 
And  the  breeze  is  long  forgotten ; 
Where  the  flowers  bloom  forever, 
And  the  birds  have  lost  their  voices ; 
Where  the  rivers  flow  in  silence, 
In  this  dream-flown  land  of  silence. 


There  my  soul  is  torn  and  broken 
With  a  wild  grief  which  is  silent, 
And  my  thoughts  cry  out  in  anguish. 
But  my  voice  is  flown  and  silent. 
There  the  stillness  and  the  flowers. 
And  the  voiceless  birds  and  rivers, 
All  unheard,  are  sobbing,  sobbing, 
With  a  grief  which  reigns  forever. 


And  I  often  in  my  dreaming, 
Linger  by  a  stream  of  silver, 
Bubbling  o'er  the   forest's  carpet 
Like  a  host  of  glistening  fairies ; 
And  I  sit  beside  its  waters, 
Lost  in  dreary  trance-like  musings, 
Which  are  drenched  in  desolation 
Of  this  land  of  unheard  weeping. 


Then  I  suddenly  awaken 

To  my  place  in  earth's  existence, 

Where  one  has  no  time  for  dreaming 

But  must  work  for  preservation. 

So  I  leave  my  unreal  fancies 

To  the  haunted  land  which  holds  them, 

And  resume  my  way  of  working 

In  the  rut  of  reason's  travel.     - 


NOVEMBER,    1912. 


illusion 


And  what  is  as  fair,  in  this  world  of  care 

(Where  we  are  bound  slaves  to  reality) 

As  illusion?     *     *     *     'Tis  sweet,  with  its  gentle  deceit, 

And  wraps  our  ideals  in  trancendency. 


How  gladly  we  let  it  make  us  forget 

That  the  gossameer  dreams,  which  we  love  in  our  youth, 

Are  blind  and  unreal ;  for  the  poet's  ideal 

Is  a  vision  unswept  by  the  searchlight  of  truth. 


JANUARY  5,   1913 


TCove  Song 

(DEDICATED  TO  GABY  DESLYS) 

Beautiful  creature  of  my  dreams, 
On  thy  golden  head  there  gleams 
A  glorious   light,  so  soft,   it  seems 
A  radiance  supernatural. 
Beautiful  angel  Gabrielle! 


'Neath  penciled  brows,  thy  lustrous  eyes 
Are  full  of  laughing  pained  surprise 
At  thy  misdeeds,  thou  would'st  disguise, 
From  me  who  loves  thee  far  too  well. 
Beautiful  angel  Gabrielle ! 


Ah,  I  would  kiss  thy  glowing  lips, 
Much  as  the  butterfly  that  dips 
Into  the  crimson  rose,  and  sips 
The  nectar  from  that  source  divine; 
Then  falls,  o'ercome  by  joy  and  wine. 


'Though  from  thy  charms,  my  great  love  came, 

Yet"  from  those  charms  I  must  refrain. 

Give  me  a  lily  from  thy  name, 

And  free  me  from  thy  clinging  spell. 

Oh,  lovely  angel  Gabrielle! 

AUGUST   5,    1912. 


The  following  poem  is  the  supposed  answer  of  one 
of  the  great  artists  of  the  Seventeenth  Century,  given 
upon  being  questioned  by  a  friend,  as  to  whether  his 
artistic  career  has  provided  him  with  more  pleasurable 
satisfaction,  than  would  the  successful  filling  of  any 
other  vocation. 


I. 


You  ask  me  if  unwont  attraction  lies 
Within  an  artist's   life  or  sculptor's   work. 
Well,  it  is  very  hard  to  tell,  I  think. 
As  every  calling  knows  its  recompense. 


And  we  who  stay  cooped  up  within  four  walls 

Most  of  the  day,  busied  with  paint  and  brush, 

Or  grind  away  at  obstinate  marble,   find 

A  pleasure  individual  to  us, 

Which    is    not   shared  by   those   whose   labour  bids 

Them   to  submit  to  open  sun   and   rain. 

Or  toil  beneath  a  drear  monotony. 


Still,  such  have  joys  the  artist  does  not  know, 
And   so   I   find  that   all   things   teach   of  life, 
That   every   phase   contains   its   own    reward. 

Perhaps  that's  why  so  many  are  content 
To  wait  for  circumstance  to  turn  them  out 
A    fixed   work,   for   a   late   associate. 

But    I    was    born    beneath    such    stars,    combined 
As  fill  the  heart  with  love  for  some  one  thing. 

So  I  have  striven,  fought  unwaveringly. 

Toward  the  one  point  where  my  ideal  was   fixed. 

You  question,  have  I  now  arrived  at  full 

To  taste   the   sweetness   of  assured   success. 

I  do  not  know.     The  world  has  called  me  great, 

And  surely,  satisfaction's  found  in  that. 

But  as  for  joy  of  heart,  I  really  think 

That  when  I  was  a  boy  and  drew  at  will, 

Upon  whatever  came  within  my  hands. 

Or  pinched  a  figure  out  of  mud  or  clay, 

I  was  as  happy  in  the  doing  so, 

As  I  am   now,  in  working  for  the   Duke. 

For  after  all,  Art,  when  it's  in  the  soul. 

Is  never  restful,  never  satisfied. 

And  though  there's  hidden  honey  for  the  taste, 

When  one  surveys  the  beauty  of  one's  work, 

The  bitterness   that  lingers  in  the  sweet, 

Is   always   found   beneath   the  heart's   first  joy. 


II. 

We  never  gather  knowledge  in  a  leap; 

But  step  by   step,   through   slow  and   colourless   toil. 

Thus,  when  we  reach  a  rich  development 

Of  talent  and  of  technique,  and  we  find 

That  power  in  art,  is  ours,  to  own  and  use, 

It  all  seems  natural,  and  we  feel  no  thrill 

At  th'  finding  of  our  capabilities. 

For  progress  creeping  on  us,  unawares, 

Wipes  out  all  seeming  of  a  miracle. 

And  so  I  feel  no  different  to-day, 
Than  when  a  boy,  I  worked  as  best  I  could. 
Laughed  for  the  pleasure  of  what  gifts  were  mine. 
Wept  for  my  limitations  and  my  youth. 

Had  I  been  able  then,  to  lift  the  vail 

That  hung  between  that  time  of  life  and  now, 

Doubtless  the  sight  of  my  perfected  art, 

(Viewed    without    the    intervening   years) 

Would  have  struck  my  young  heart  dumb,  with  joy  and  awe, 

As  though  I'd  caught  a  sudden  glimpse  of  Heaven. 

But  now  that  gradual  development 

Has  brought  me  to  the  zenith  of  my  dreams, 

I   can   discover  naught  of  wonder  in   it; 

As  the  progressive  opening  of  my  eyes 

Has  shown  me  that  one  never  knows  enough 

To  blot  out  sight  of  what  one  doesn't  know. 

That's  the  chief  hurt,  I  think,  within  all  gain ; 
The  restlessness  that  underlies  success. 


III. 

If  only  in   our  souls,  we   might   approve. 
The  things  of  our  creation, — then  let  be — 
Our  satisfaction  would  be  more  complete. 

But   as   it   is,    (I   find   both    with   myself, 

And  those  related  to  me  in  pursuit.) 

That  learning  is  a  thing  which  never  stops 

To  settle  into  quiet  at  its  goal. 

For  ever  with  each  new  attained  end, 

A  wider,  clearer  vista  opens  up 

Into  the  storehouse  of  the  infinite. 

And  we,  as  though   with  newly  given  sight, 

See  that  the  end  we  sought,  is   incomplete. 

IV. 

Thus  is  it,   I  am  wont  to  meditate, 
Through  the  long  hours  that  I  spend  at  work. 
And  as  I  see  forms  rise  beneath  my  hand, 
All  quickened  and  created  by  my  skill, 
My  pleasure  in  achievement's  end  is  marred 
By  the  vision  of  an  unrealized  ideal. 

And  I  am  also  conscious,  that  the  soul 
Within  my  art,  is  sleeping;  nor  will  wake, 
Until    I   gain   that   power  to   combine 
In  even  compact,  forces  of  mind  and  hand. 

Until  I  can  induce  a  higher  sense 

To  join  its  value  with  what  is   attained, 

And  so  bring  forth  a  perfect  work  of  art. 


But.  should  I  die,  before  I  realize 

My  ideal  come  to  pass,  I  can  but  pray, 

That  somewhere  in  an  unknown  world  to  be, 

God  has  ordained,  that  we  may  live  again; 

And  in  that  future  life  pursue  the  work, 

Which  best  delights  our  souls. 


V. 


Your  questioning,  about  my  chosen  work, 

Has  led  me  to  express  myself,  as  best 

I  could,  with  unpremeditated  words. 

But  surely,  it  were  difficult  for  you 

To  gather  meaning  from  these  tangled  thoughts. 

And  harder  still,  to  grasp  the  scattered  sense 

Of  my  wand'ring  logic.     But  I  hope, 

(That  should  you  call  to  mind,  aught  I  have  said,) 

You  will  realize  that  I  am  happier 

Than  if  I  were  less  earnest;  and  that  Life 

Is  very  loved  by  me.  spite  of  its  thrusts. 


Perhaps  the  incompleteness  of  our  dreams, 
Is  the  glory  of  existence  on  this  earth     *     * 
Who  can  say?     Life  is  too  great  to  solve. 
But  in  all  our  striving,  be  it  what  it  may, 
(Providing  it  is  worthy)   I  would  pray, 
That  God  direct  our  eyes  to  Him  throughout. 


AUGUST    12,    1913. 


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